


Harry Potter and the Cursed Talk

by lastontheboat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Molly Doesn't Care, arthur gives the talk, harry gets the talk, it's still going to get done correctly, nobody is happy about this situation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-10 08:07:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15287346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lastontheboat/pseuds/lastontheboat
Summary: Molly sniffs. “Far be it from me to pass judgement on Harry’s relatives,” she says primly. Arthur has known his wife long enough to recognize the overwhelming volume of judgement contained in her tone, but wisely does not comment on it. “But I can’t help feeling concerned that Harry is becoming ayoung adultwithout being properly prepared for the experience.”





	Harry Potter and the Cursed Talk

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot express enough appreciation for [russ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/russ/), who took something readable and elevated it to something other people might want to read.
> 
> Working title: "Harry Potter and the Bedchamber of Secrets"

Arthur Weasley sits at the head of the Burrow’s dining room table with his breakfast resting half-finished in front of him, frowning at a copy of the Daily Prophet fresh from the beak of its delivery owl. Even at a glance Arthur can tell that every article seems to be related somehow to the upcoming Quidditch World Cup final, castigating the ministry for being unprepared to deal with details such as  _ portkeys _ and  _ last minute stadium security _ and  _ camping ground bookings _ and  _ arranging protection for international dignitaries _ .

He sighs, slouching back in his chair as he carefully rubs the hair around the thinning patch that he knows is growing larger.  The ministry has been run off its feet for months trying to finalize those exact elements, he fumes. It’s not  _ their _ fault that everyone else has a last minute request they could not possibly have raised back when all the plans were reviewed  _ months _ ago. If only the so-called ‘reporters’ who had filed these stories were in the room with him now, he’d… why he’d... 

He hears Molly say something that begins with “Arthur, dear,” but he’s too busy daydreaming about pressing a libel suit against the exasperating journalists to catch the rest of the words. “Hmm?” he murmurs, once he notices the sort of pause that means he’s supposed to respond. It takes an effort to wrench his mind away from the imagined argument he’s having with the Prophet’s international relations correspondent, but it’s an effort that he’s happy to put in for Molly’s sake.

“The talk, dear,” Molly says, in a tone suggesting that everything should be abundantly clear at this juncture. “You know, the one that I just finished giving Ginny.” She looks at him meaningfully.

“Oh?” he stalls, aiming for a hopefully neutral answer while he tries to sort out what, exactly, they are discussing.

“The sex talk, dear.”

“Ah, yes. Yes. Of course. Did it... go well?”

Molly beams at him, evidently pleased that he’s following along. He wishes he shared her confidence in his understanding. “Oh yes. Ginny was mortified of course, but we covered all of the important points.”

“Good, good,” Arthur says, relieved that he doesn’t appear to have missed anything significant earlier. “I’m very glad to hear that. Thank you for dealing with that. I’m sure Ginny will come to appreciate it one day too.”

“You’re welcome, dear,” she says with a smile, and he smiles back reflexively. He will never get tired of seeing Molly smile, especially not of _causing_ her to smile. Unexpectedly, her smile morphs into a slight frown and he feels a prickle of dread enter his morning. “But while we were talking, I thought back on how I gave the same talk to _each_ _of our sons_ when they were entering third year and it occurred to me – do you think anyone ever gave _Harry_ the talk?”

“Weeeell,” Arthur muses, “he might have, mightn’t he?” Molly purses her lips; clearly she is skeptical on this point and Arthur hurries to back up his speculation. “His muggle family do have that other boy. Dudlers or something. Maybe they both had it at the same time?”

Molly sniffs. “Far be it from me to pass judgement on Harry’s relatives,” she says primly. Arthur has known his wife long enough to recognize the overwhelming volume of judgement contained in her tone, but wisely does not comment on it. “But I can’t help feeling concerned that Harry is becoming a  _ young adult _ without being properly prepared for the experience.”

“It’s not really our place though, is it?” Arthur asks, frowning at the Prophet once again. He’d glanced down, just for a second, and saw an opinion piece about the Ministry’s policies on portkeys. Not only was it factually incorrect, but it was arguing that disguising portkeys as muggle trash was tantamount to declaring magic useless rubbish. His mouth continues the conversation without input from the rest of his brain. “I mean, how would you feel if Ron returned from a visit and some other family had gone and... you know. Told him all those things. You’d be furious, wouldn’t you?”

“Arthur Weasley!” Molly says sharply. Arthur knows that tone - he tears his eyes away from the paper again and gets a good look at her expression. It’s possible that allowing his attention to drift was a mistake. “We are hardly some  _ other family _ , and it’s not the same at all!” She takes a step closer and Arthur has a premonition - Molly’s mind is made up. She’s devised a course of action and things will go far, far better for him if he rolls with whatever is coming rather than fight the inevitable. “Harry’s home life is clearly... unpredictable,” she says delicately, lowering her voice. “I think we have a  _ responsibility _ to ensure that he gets what he needs here.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Arthur agrees hastily. He finds himself hoping that a quick acquiescence will dull the dangerously sharp gleam in her eye. “You’re absolutely right.”

“I’m so glad you agree, dear.” Molly beams at him again, but the look in her eyes never wavers. “There’s really no time like the present. I checked earlier, and Harry didn’t look like he was busy with anything. Why don’t you go talk to him now?”

“Go talk to him?” Arthur asks weakly. “Er... wouldn’t it be better if... that is, you’ve had so much experience by now, that surely-”

“No, Arthur,” Molly replies decisively, and Arthur knows he’s lost.“You two have bonded over a common interest, I think. The way that muggles approach this may be different, so Harry might appreciate this coming from you.”

“Different?” Arthur says in alarm. “It’s still the same bits, isn’t it, Molly?”

“I have confidence in you!” Molly says brightly, ignoring his question as she clears away his half-eaten plate. “Harry’s in Ron’s room, and I’ve got Ron feeding the hens, so you’ll have plenty to time to cover everything.” Arthur really does have to admire how thoroughly she commits to her plans.

* * *

Were it not for the fact that Molly somehow had a sixth sense for everything that was, and perhaps more importantly was  _ not _ , happening in the Burrow, Arthur isn’t sure he would actually be standing outside Ron’s bedroom door at this moment. There is nothing  _ overtly _ ominous about it, unless one objected strongly to the particular shade of orange employed by the Chudley Cannons. Granted, a significant portion of magical Britain would likely take issue with it; Ron never did follow the crowd when it came to Quidditch. Nevertheless, the bedroom door  _ feels _ ominous today, almost certainly because of what he has to face once the door opens.

It takes several tries to summon the courage required to make contact with the door, rapping gently to let anyone on the other side know it is about to open. _First begun is half done_ , he thinks, and uses the momentum of knocking to help him turn the knob, opening the door wide enough to peer inside. “Harry?” he says hesitantly, “would you mind if I... that is, could I have your attention for a few minutes?”

Harry is lying on Ron’s bed with his head toward the foot of it, his ankles crossed in the air behind him. He’s paging through a book filled with diagrams and arrows and labels; the photos of what look like Quidditch teams suggest it’s a book of play diagrams for famous matches, but Arthur was never one to fixate on the details of the sport. There’s something unfocused about Harry’s gaze that makes Arthur suspect he is really daydreaming.

Harry looks up from the book and directs his attention toward him, an expression of mild curiosity on his face. He is blissfully unaware of the dreadful task that Arthur faces. “Oh, sure, Mr. Weasley,” he says.

“Good, good,” Arthur says distractedly, playing for time as he moves unhurriedly to the centre of the room. His arms hang limply at his sides, so he clasps his hands while he tries to remember the opening he’d planned in the hallway. It seems to have totally vanished as he walked through the accursed orange door. Casting about for anything to say he opens his mouth, determined to force something out.“Do you mind if I sit down?” He points at the other end of the bed. It isn’t much, but at least it’s something. “I think this will be easier if I’m sitting down.”

Harry wriggles until he’s sitting cross legged, leaving plenty of space for Arthur. Arthur sits, rubbing his hands up and down the threadbare fabric of his robes. He has entered the room. He has spoken a few words. Now what?

“Is this something bad?” Harry asks as the silence stretches between them, his expression shifting from mild curiosity to worry. “Did something happen to S- someone?”

“What?” asks Arthur, before his brain catches up with the conversation he’s  _ actually _ having instead of the one he’s  _ planning _ to have. “Oh, no! No, no my dear boy, of course not!” He forces a chuckle. For some reason, Harry does not appear to find this reassuring. “I just… have something… that Molly… that I… that is… well, that I would like to discuss with you.”

“Okaaaay” Harry says dubiously. He sounds deeply skeptical, as if choosing to withhold judgement on the matter until he has more of the facts available.

_ It’s like apparating the first time _ Arthur thinks to himself.  _ There’s no way to ease into it - you just focus on where you want to go and then turn on the spot. _ He takes a deep breath, and then it seems to pour out of him all at once: “Harry, what do you know about where babies come from?”

Harry blinks slowly, seemingly taken aback. Arthur sympathizes with his confusion but maintains his composure. He’s the adult, and he will act like one. “Um. What?” Harry eventually asks.

“We’ve been talking to our children about these matters,” Arthur continues, determined to have it over with as quickly as possible, “And Molly, er, that is,  _ we _ want to make sure that you also know about how these things, er,  _ work _ .” He can feel his confidence starting to slip, which is a bad sign. Perhaps it would be wisest to test the waters first, determine the actual level of instruction necessary. There is still a slim chance this whole fiasco can be avoided. There’s no reason to go on about it if Harry already has a suitably thorough grounding.

Half way through his speech Harry stops looking at Arthur, choosing instead to look at something Arthur can only assume is incredibly interesting in the beds of his nails. He speaks to them instead of Arthur. “Er, yeah. I know about. You know.” Arthur breathes a sigh of relief, feeling himself straighten at the heartening news. They’ll be able to wrap this up quickly and pretend like it never happened. “When I was... in my room two summers ago, my uncle pushed a book under my door. I think it was called ‘Leaving Behind the Flower of Youth,’ and he said I could ask two questions.”

“Great!” Arthur says jovially. “Excellent! Wonderful news! Well, in that case, we can consider the matter closed and-”

“ _ Ask him for details _ .” Molly’s voice is faint but clear, floating through the open doorway. Arthur feels his heart sink. If she’s listening in, despite her claim of confidence in his abilities, there’s really nothing for it but to press on and make sure it’s done  _ properly _ . She’ll never let him hear the end of it otherwise. A look of mortification steals across Harry’s face as he realizes there are more parties involved in this embarrassing conversation. “ _ Confirm his understanding _ ,” the ethereal voice continues, ignoring the stillness that has descended on the room.

“Mr Weasley?” asks Harry, hesitantly. His eyes are wide, nervous, darting around the room as though hoping to seize on some means of escaping the looming, nightmarish conversation.

Arthur admires his optimism. If Molly is listening there will be no escape for either of them. “Best go along with it, Harry,” he says in the brightest tones he can muster under the circumstances. “Easier for everyone. Why not walk me through how it works, just to be sure? Not that I  _ need _ walking through it, you understand. We do have seven children after all, ha ha.”

The attempt at a joke to lighten the mood meets with a gaping, cavernous silence. Harry’s gaze is now fixed resolutely on one of the Chudley Cannons posters adorning Ron’s ceiling, and he seems to be pretending that those words were never spoken out loud in his presence. “Go on then, tell me how it works,” Arthur prompts a little desperately. “You know, the general outlines.”

Harry’s eyes flick over to Arthur’s. They seem to ask  _ do I really have to? _ Arthur nods once, grimly, and jerks his head at the expectant quiet of the hallway. Harry squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, then opens them again just to return to staring at the Chudley Cannons poster. He takes a deep breath and starts turning pink even before he’s started speaking. “Um. A man’s, er, thing, goes in a woman, and then the stuff goes into the egg and it turns into a baby.” 

Arthur watches in sympathy as Harry’s cheeks slowly redden during this description. He wishes he could award him full marks and beat a retreat to his unfinished arguments with the Daily Prophet, but he’s sure the voice from the hall will have something to say about the noticeable dearth of specific nouns in that sentence.

“ _ Penis and vagina, _ ” Molly intones from her hidden position, proving him right. Harry looks rather like he wishes the spells on the Burrow would all spontaneously unravel at once so this conversation might come to an end. Arthur doesn’t blame him.

“Er,” Arthur says reluctantly, “maybe you could add a bit more detail to that description? Just to demonstrate the scope of your knowledge? That you know about all the parts involved?”

A horrified, stunned silence fills the room.

“Harry?” prompts Arthur, because he knows if Harry doesn’t speak up soon then-

“ _PENIS_ ,” Molly supplies from the hall, far louder than necessary. “ _VAGINA_.” 

“Yes,” says Arthur weakly. “Those would be a good place to start.”

Harry squeezes his eyes shut, screwing up the rest of his face in horrified disgust as he says, “Thepenisgoesinthevagina _ arewedonenow _ .”

Arthur realizes that he’s clutching the bedsheet behind his back and loosens his grip on it. Things are embarrassing enough without having to explain to Ron why there are ten new tears in his bedspread that need mending. “Er,” he says, listening hopefully to the doorway.

“ _ Specifics _ ,” intones the voice from beyond, and then, “ _ Sperm. Eggs. _ ” Arthur suppresses a groan, but Harry does not even bother to hide his, burying his face in his hands as he vocalizes his feelings. Arthur  _ thinks _ he hears him whimper ‘ _ please no _ ’ but he can’t be entirely sure and well… Molly can be insistent.

“We are not done,” Arthur says, and he hopes he is able to keep the forlorn sound out of his voice. He is  _ trying _ to be a good role model in this conversation, after all. Perhaps the end of their suffering could be hastened along if he were a more active participant. Harry Potter is the Boy Who Lived, after all, and vanquished You-Know-Who as a baby; he should not be made to suffer needlessly simply because  _ Arthur _ is feeling a bit squeamish. “You know that the stuff that comes out of the... the penis is called sperm, right?” Mentally he congratulates himself for barely stumbling over the words. “And it has to… inseminate… the egg. Through the vagina.”

Harry nods his head, but Arthur knows that their lurking audience will not be able to see that. Arthur pokes him, and when Harry shoots him a shocked look, points at his mouth, and then his ear, and then the door. Arthur can see the exact moment when Harry clues in. “Oh! Uh, yes. Yep. That is how that works. Yes.” Harry pitches his voice so it can be easily heard from the hall, averting his eyes from Arthur as he does so. Arthur nods approvingly regardless.

“So that’s where babies come from!” Arthur says with a cheer he most certainly does  _ not _ feel. Harry spares a hopeful look to the door to see if that means that this torture will end, but a meaningful cough from the hallway outside that sounds suspiciously like “birth control” dashes both their hopes. 

Arthur steels himself for the next round. With a sigh he says, “Sometimes intercourse is something people want to do, but they don’t want the possibility of having a child, right?

“Right,” says Harry, doggedly. Arthur gives him an encouraging nod. “It… is?”

“It is,” Arthur confirms. “So, Harry, let’s say you find yourself in a situation where you and someone else want to, you know.” Arthur gives a little dry cough as he suddenly realizes that he hasn’t said  _ the word _ yet in this conversation. They’ve both been dancing around it with euphemisms, but it’s time to really commit. “Haaaaaave sex. And you don’t want to make a baby.”  _ Almost did it _ , he thinks to himself sadly. Harry has switched from focusing on the bedroom door to staring out the window intently, as if making plans for the garden such as widening the begonia bed or adding a new pathway for quick escapes. Arthur continues: “Now, muggles have something they use. They come in foil packets, I’m pretty sure. Condors? Corndomes? Calzones?” He purses his lips as he tries to remember the peculiar, unfamiliar name.

Harry is looking at him in horrified fascination. “Calzones?” he says uncertainly. “Do you mean…”

“Yes!” says Arthur, feeling relieved. “Yes, exactly that! Calzones!”

Harry winces. Arthur is glad to see they are on the same page. The next part of this conversation is going to be, if possible, even worse than the previous one.

“Generally witches and wizards will make use of certain potions which are available from any reputable potioneer. However, if you are, er,  _ unsure  _ of the effectiveness of the potion then calzones serve as a good alternative! Muggles are so inventive, aren’t they? Who would have thought that-”

“Mister Weasley, please,” says Harry in a strained voice, “is now really the time?” From the hall Arthur hears “Focus, dear!” in a familiar, lovingly exasperated tone.

_ Merlin _ but how Arthur wishes they could be discussing the breathtaking ingenuity of muggles instead of what they are  _ actually _ talking about. “Calzones,” he continues, “are always a good option, as long as you use them properly. That’s very important. And be sure!” he interrupts himself excitedly, suddenly remembering a crucial fact he had learned as a tangent to an improper use of muggle artifacts case. “Be sure the calzone you use is one  _ made _ by muggles and not transfigured!”

“Not… transfigured?” Harry asks. Arthur senses that he is interested in spite of himself, and for once the audience in the hall seems mollified that there is something resembling an actual, unprompted conversation taking place.

“Precisely,” Arthur confirms.

He waits.

“Why?” Harry eventually asks, quite obviously despite his better judgement.

Arthur grins. “Because,” he intones, adopting the voice he uses when he lectures Fred and George about the use of muggle artifacts, “what would happen if the transformation reverted during the... the act of intercourse?”

Horror dawns on Harry’s face, but he doesn’t answer.

“Indeed,” Arthur says solemnly. He finds he’s almost enjoying this part of the conversation. The enthusiasm he feels for these sorts of matters is bubbling up; it’s close enough to his area of interest to be fascinating, not embarrassing. “How many improper transfigurations like this do you think they’ve had to deal with in the misuse of magical artifacts department? It’s just down the hall from my office, you know. We get all the gossip!”

“How many?” Harry asks with a mixture of revulsion and curiosity.

Arthur stops and thinks for a few seconds. “Well, to be honest, I’ve really only heard of something like this once. Someone tried to transfigure... and it was to be a, uh... a toy. For... sex.” Even in the face of something tangentially related to his interests Arthur finds himself losing his nerve to delve fully into the specifics of potential bedroom activities. It’s probably a lot for Harry to take in at the very first talk of this sort, especially from his best friend’s parents. He certainly doesn’t need it  _ all _ in one go.

From the hallway, Molly clearly decides that the detour is over and whispers three unmistakable letters. From the way Harry’s face drains of colour, despite being flushed red for most of their conversation, he has heard them too.

Arthur clears his throat. “Molly would you like to take over?” he asks meaningfully.

“I was just sweeping this hallway and couldn’t help but overhear!” comes the guileless reply from around the corner. “Don’t mind me, boys.”

“There aren’t,” Harry begins, then stops. “Are there-” he tries again, his eyes still wide with horror.

“There are a few that, like dragon pox, bear a passing resemblance to the variety muggles are most prone to,” Arthur says, guessing at the thrust of Harry’s questions. “Thankfully most of the potions that handle the, er, other problem-”

“ _ Virility and fertility, _ ” Molly supplies.

“Yes, thank you dear,” sighs Arthur. “Most of the potions that cover  _ that _ also cover this protection too.”

“That’s… good,” says Harry after a long pause. “Right?”

“Right,” confirms Arthur. He finds himself hoping against hope that they’re coming to the end of the topics that a 14 year old should know about. There’s only so much to take in at once, surely? “And if you, er, engage in, in  _ intercourse _ ,” Arthur starts, feeling like the end is in sight. Harry winces but Arthur carries on heroically, “and find you have any discomfort-”

“Please stop,” Harry begs him.

“It’s important that you-”

“Find a hole to die in?” Harry asks, throwing himself back on the bed and covering his eyes with his arms. “Alone?”

“ _ Seek out a trained mediwizard _ _,_ ” Molly corrects relentlessly from the hall.

“I was getting to that!” Arthur protests. “At least give me a chance!”

“Love the glove Harry!” calls either Fred or George from the landing below. “Easier than the potion, catches the other junk too!”

“Wrap it before you-” starts the other, but before he can finish Molly is yelling “Fred! George! Do you  _ want _ to spend the rest of the day de-gnoming the garden?” Arthur can hear her stomping down the stairs. He thinks, he hopes, that this might be the end of whole affair. Harry has retreated further up the bed and now has his head stuffed under a pillow, looking less receptive than ever. “Look, Harry,” Arthur says nervously, listening for the tell-tale sound of returning footsteps outside the door. “I think we can agree that we’ve covered a great deal today. Lots of useful information. About babies, and, and, not babies. As it were. Why don’t we, er… take a break to let it all settle in?”

One of Harry’s hands reaches up to raise one end of the pillow, and his face emerges nodding furiously.

“Unless you have any questions remaining?” Arthur feels compelled to ask. He watches Harry’s eyes widen as he switches to frantically shaking his head back and forth. Arthur is afraid that he’s going to end up bashing it against the bedside lamp if he keeps it up.

“Very good!” Arthur says happily, standing up quickly now that his duty has been discharged. “Very good indeed. Of course, if you  _ do _ have questions at any time always remember that Molly… and I… but Molly in particular… well, we will always try our best to answer them!”

There’s a pause. “Right,” Harry agrees weakly, sensing that some response is required. “Will do.” Now that the imminent risk of reaching new heights of embarrassment has passed, he appears wrung out, as if surprised at having survived some great ordeal.

“Very good!” Arthur repeats, searching for a way out of this conversation. “I’ll be around, then,” he says with a vague wave of his hand, and promptly makes a dignified retreat at full speed down one flight of stairs to the room where he stashed his Daily Prophet before embarking on his doomed mission. Halfway through the front page article about Quidditch preparations, he’s only just begun to rekindle his earlier indignation about shoddy reporting standards when he hears footsteps approaching Ron’s room and tenses up.

“Mate!” Ron’s voice floats down the stairwell, and Arthur relaxes once more. “You look dreadful. Are you all right? I told you those jams we had at breakfast tasted off! You shouldn’t’ve had so many of them.”

“The jams were fine, Ron,” Harry says, sounding wearied. “This is… something else.”

“It’s not your scar, is it?” Ron asks concernedly. Arthur chuckles drily and tries to focus on stoking the fires of righteous outrage against reporters with axes to grind.

“You know how last summer you wrote about your mum sitting you down and… explaining everything?”

Ron gasps. “Oh no, she didn’t, did she?”

“Worse,” Harry says. “Your dad.”

“Mate,” Ron whispers. “Oh, mate.”

Arthur frowns and focuses more intently on the terrible excuse for journalism in his hands.

“Want a chocolate frog, mate?”

“I’ll take two.”


End file.
